


Alis Propriis Volat

by Lady_Otori



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/M, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), G'raha Being Nice To Children, Light Angst, Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Sexual Tension, Specific Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Summoner Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Tumblr: FFXIVwrite2019, library date
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-05 19:02:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20493722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Otori/pseuds/Lady_Otori
Summary: In times of peace, we learn each other anew. A series of interconnected oneshots for the FFXIVWrite2019 challenge.Latest Prompt: Forgiven[It’s hard, to recall the lonely, frantic years spent after waking up, lost in a world without all the people he knew and loved. Nothing but his own shock and horror for company, before the descendants of the Ironworks came to him to plead for a world almost as lost as he.]





	1. Voracious

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, I finally caved and have put together a little something featuring my own Warrior of Light 💖 I hope you enjoy getting to know her! I haven't written for her before so there is no prior knowledge necessary, except if you've read anything of mines before you'll probably have guessed she's a miqo'te 🐾
> 
> This is for the FFxivWrite2019 challenge hosted over on Tumblr, where we have 24 hours to respond to a prompt. That means there'll be minimal editing with all of these works 😨 so I do hope you'll forgive me if you spot anything strange.

It’s a little embarrassing, G’raha thinks, to have forgotten that when he first met Ariadne she’d been as formidable a scholar as he. 

_ And yet I shouldn’t have, _he chides himself, leaning against the bookshelf where he can’t be seen by either the Warrior nor her attendant librarians. At least not her passion for books, which had rivalled - and at times outstripped - that of his younger, more eager self. 

When she arrived on the First it had been terribly easy to view her as the figure he’d read about for a full hundred years: vaunted fighter and gifted saviour, martial prowess written in the lines of her deceptively slender form and destiny in everything she touched. That was what was written of her; the ability to turn the tide of a battlefield, the sight of Titan’s bane and Dreadwyrm’s mistress striding to defeat foe after foe and saving shards in the process. 

Not this. Not a still-young miqo’te woman curled up in a chair, books spread across a table so haphazardly he feels it is only her status that prevents Moren’s strong rebuke. Not a person caught deep in the throes of a new story, her ultramarine hair tousled from the hand that props up her head as she consumes. 

The Exarch watches, loathe to interrupt her pursuit of pleasure, and yet; and _ yet, _he is already moving towards where she sits, eager to match wits with nothing but a smile at stake. 

It’s selfish. G’raha acknowledges that to himself privately, but it’s forgotten in the next instant when Ariadne looks over the edge of her tome and sees him. Smiles at him. Her true grin, sharp little fangs poking into her indigo lips and her tattooed eyes creasing in pleased recognition. 

“G’raha,” she greets. 

He had forgotten how _ quiet _she is, too. Her voice often little louder than a husky whisper that people had to lean forward to hear. And listen they did: even when he’d known her and she was just beginning to exceed the confines of legend, the Exarch remembers Rammbroes’ large frame bending solicitously forwards to catch whatever wit or wisdom passed by her secretive mouth.

“Ariadne,” he replies, inclining his head and moving to lean against the bookshelf closest to her literary nest. Sparing a glance for the subjects of her consumption, he’s amused to note that there are not a few tomes about the Crystarium and his subsequent leadership of the town, interspersed with treaties on local flora and fauna. So too are there works of the arcane, dense grimoires that yet pale in comparison to the one strapped innocuously to her hip. 

“I’m sorry to disturb,” he says, but he isn’t, not really. “I oft take to the Cabinet at this time of day, and wondered if you wished for company while you worked.” 

She looks down at the books spread in front of her, long ears flicking just once. They’ve both matured, he reflects, because in Mor Dhona G’raha had been able to read her mood from naught more than the waving of her crowning glories. But now she is unreadable. 

At least, not until she lets the bookcover slip through her fingers, revealing not the gold-tooled lettering of a botanists’ journal that G’raha expected, but a hand-written, infamous journal of a far more salacious kind. 

“I’ve been reading here for _ bells _ ,” she says, giving him a wink. “I fear I’ve already eaten everything worth knowing, unless you’d like to give me more insight as to the claims I’m learning about _ here _.” 

Clawed fingers waggle the book teasingly. G’raha blushes, just enough for Ariadne to catch it and grin wider. Written almost fifty years ago, the work was _ extensive _in its determination to reveal the secrets of the enigmatic Crystal Exarch. He’d allowed it to circulate with exasperation - not believing in curbing people’s expression - but some of the claims inside its crimson pages are utterly baffling to him. 

For starters, he thinks, that there are _ things _he can do with the crystallisation of his body that-

Ariadne raises a sleek blue eyebrow and G’raha feels, for just a moment, that his thoughts might be painting themselves on his uncovered face. 

“Well?” she prompts, and he can’t help but roll Allagan eyes to peals of her quiet laughter. “Is it true?”

“Absolutely none of it,” he says promptly, folding his arms and smiling despite himself. “I never discovered the author, but I worry sometimes for the imagination of people when confronted with the unexplainable…”

That is something they are both familiar with. But it doesn’t distract the Warrior from her hunt, Ariadne’s seaglass eyes following every minute shift he makes as he tries not to feel _ too _embarrassed. 

Perhaps this is, he considers, something of a rebuke for interrupting her leisure. 

“That _ is _ a shame,” she says unexpectedly, looking back down at whichever outrageous rumour she’d been reading. “Some of these claims are quite- ah, _ voracious _.” 

The Exarch loses his battle with his blush, redness creeping insidiously across his cheeks until he can feel the heat on the back of his neck. 

“I shall leave you to peruse them,” he says archly, trying and failing to cover the embarrassment in his tone. 

He makes it barely away from the solid wall of books before a cool hand encircles his spoken wrist. Looking over his shoulder, G’raha is confronted with the sight of Ariadne on her knees on her chair, arm outstretched to stop him and her ears laid flat in blatant contrition. It’s contrived; he knows her well enough to know that. Then she opens her mouth and says, softly, 

“Do not be cross, G’raha,”

And her ploy works anyway. He will relearn, he vows as he turns back to take a seat next the Warrior of Light, how formidable Ariadne truly can be. 

He’ll have to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good luck to everyone else participating!


	2. Bargain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is fun! I'm late already! 😅 gentle reminder that these are very lightly edited... 
> 
> If you'd like to see what Ariadne looks like, I have some pictures up on Tumblr, like this one: [from my tumblr post of this prompt](https://lady-otori.tumblr.com/post/187472052716/ffxivwrite2019-prompt-2-bargain) 🐾

_ Do not bargain with the beast.  _

It’s the sole shred of wisdom Ariadne still follows from her childhood, the simple strictures of hunters no longer applicable in a world of diplomacy and devastation and living up to the hopes of nations. Nevertheless, it serves her well, until she looks down into Tataru’s disapproving gaze and wonders if she could bend that conviction, just once. 

“Really, Ariadne?” the Scion receptionist asks, pale hands fisted by her sides. “You want me to provide you - no questions asked - with several platters of our finest meats and fish, all delivered to the Syrcus Trench posthaste?”

The young woman fidgets. It’s not the  _ most  _ unreasonable ask, for that still belongs to Alphinaud and his wayward sword-purchasing days, but even she knows it’s almost to the pale. 

“If you please?” she tries. Tataru is unconvinced, and the scholar privately thinks that the fierce Scion would get on with the likes of Giott very well indeed. 

“But what is it  _ for _ ?” the young lalafell whines, and as she hasn’t moved from her spot by the desk Ariadne considers that she might just have to come clean. A bargain of sorts: Tataru’s cooperation for a taste of hubris. Well. It’s embarrassing, but it’s not like anyone on the First will hear of it…

“I may have,” she begins, placatingly, “over-exaggerated my, ah, ability to procure food for a feast.”

Tataru looks utterly bemused. And it’s impossible to blame the Scion; it isn’t like her to boast overmuch, and this whole mess could have been avoided had it not been for a raised eyebrow and a pair of ruby-red eyes that looked  _ just  _ this side of unconvinced. 

“That’s not like you,” Tataru comments, scuffing her feet. She’d always been pleased to be taken into confidence - it seems even now is no exception. 

“No,” Ariadne replies, chagrined, “it’s not.”

The admission seals the deal. All at once, there is a flurry of activity as Tataru directs Coultenet and his cronies to rig together some simple transportation for fresh foods, and the kitchens of Mor Dhona surrender their finest for this no-doubt important errand of the Warrior of Light. There’s enough fanfare about the whole thing that Ariadne starts feeling guilty, but Tataru soon assuages it with a casual comment of _well,_ _you’ll owe me some time with the ledgers for this, _and then she’s off, the Ironworks staff at the Trench covetous as they help clear the way to the Portal. 

It’s not until she’s left alone with the cart that she realises this idea  _ may  _ have been poorly planned. G’raha has been relatively circumspect with just how aware he is of goings-on in the Tower, but each of the times she’s used the Portal he has appeared with haste to greet her. Whether that is part of his preternatural connection or simple luck...

_ I suppose,  _ she thinks with resignation,  _ there’s no going back now.  _

Clutching the cart and willing her way through the Allagan magicks, it is with some measure of disorientation that Ariadne feels herself back on the First. The transportation of goods only loosely associated with her soul - the foodstuffs, connected to her by touch - clearly stretches the limits of what she can take. Dizzy with the exertion, Ariadne is tempted for an instant to give the game up and admit her shortcoming.

Pride, however, is no lazy mistress.

Taking deep breaths, she has enough presence of mind to disappear to the Pendants, watching as the Master of Suites eyes her passage with his professional curiosity firmly in place. It wouldn’t do for him to alert the Exarch of her arrival, and so she spares him a quick finger to her lips, bracketed by a wink that he returns in kind. 

“I daresay the soldiers are eagerly awaiting your contribution to the Feast,” he comments, gaze drifting over the impressive display of meat and fish on the small tray that she wheels haphazardly to her chamber.

“Butchered them all myself,” Ariadne replies, then winces. The first thing out of a hunter’s mouth, but she isn’t a hunter any more. Hasn’t been for too long to claim the title. “I do hope my culinary skills impress.”

Far more genteel: far less convincing. Letting the door slam shut behind her, Ariadne barely catches her breath to assess her spoils before a hesitant knock sounds at the chamber door. There’s only one person on the First who manages to sound shy and yet arresting at the same time; peeking around the heavy Kholusian oak, the miqo’te catches sight of G’raha rocking on his heels as he waits for her to answer. 

“Hello?” she greets him, confused. It’s far too early for the soldier’s feast to start, and she’d thought the Exarch would be in the thick of preparations to celebrate the valour of the Crystarium guard. 

G’raha must read the thoughts behind her bottle-green gaze, because he shrugs helplessly, shoulders heaving in contrition. 

“Forgive me, but Lyna has chased me away,” he explains, “and everywhere I turn I find myself told I am not needed until tonight.”

Ariadne tries and fails to smother a chuckle, hand to her mouth.

“So I thought I might come to offer my services in your preparations after the hunt,” the Exarch finishes, giving her a look that is dangerously close to pleading. He doesn’t like to feel at a loose end; that’s something that hasn’t changed.

“Oh-” she begins, frowning, and at the sight her friend holds his hands up in apology, taking a step away from the doors. 

“Ah, you aren’t ready, of course- sorry for the imposition.” 

Before he can turn tail and escape, Ariadne halts him with a simple murmur of his name, and when he looks back she has stood aside to let him in, her head tilted to rest against the door as she waits to see what he’ll do. 

“You’re always welcome here,” she affirms plainly, and does not wait to see if he’ll take the offer, already turning to check and make sure her celebratory offering isn’t  _ too  _ obviously the product of many hands. 

G’raha’s incredulous gaze as he takes in the sight makes her think she may have gotten away with it. 

“You… you caught all this?” he asks, coming closer to inspect the temptingly arranged foods. 

From succulent cuts of marmot steak to a brace of fresh-caught bass, it certainly looks the part of trophies accumulated by an accomplished Keeper. Tataru had followed her restrictions perfectly, presenting only those meats and fish as were difficult to identify; it wouldn’t do to bring Limsa’s famous flounders and then pass it off as spoils from the First. 

Still - it’s hard to lie so blatantly, and so Ariadne nods in response to G’raha’s amazed questioning, enduring the way he leans over the tray of food. There’s humour to it; with the keen bend of his spine and the curious way his red eyes dart over the display, he doesn’t look much like a distinguished ruler. There is more of the young miqo’te at a harvest festival in his stance, and the thought brings a nostalgic smile to the Warrior’s dusky features. 

“Truly?” G’raha repeats, and she’s too caught up in thinking of his unexpected boyishness to catch the sly undertone to his words. 

“Um, yes, for the-”

“-I see,” the Exarch interjects, humour rich in his tone. And Ariadne hasn’t heard him interrupt  _ anyone  _ since arriving on the First; along with his foolhardiness, she thought he’d left his pugnaciousness behind with his youth. “Only, I do believe this is a brace of Ilsabardian Bass.”

The young miqo’te blinks. Head whipping to face him, she comes closer, inspecting the innocuous white flesh of the fish G’raha indicates. 

There’s no point denying it - she has no idea what the catch is, only that she did  _ not  _ catch it herself. 

“You can tell?” Ariadne asks, impressed despite herself. 

The Exarch nods, pointing to a speckled pattern on the tails. “I spent my youth catching them with reluctant cousins, then my afternoons in Mor Dhona chasing sightings of them in the lakes.” 

It doesn’t mean much to her, except that he rarely mentions his childhood, painful as it was. 

“What I mean to say is, you cannot haul these in unless you know  _ how _ . And forgive me, Ariadne, but I do not believe that you do.” 

“No,” she admits, feeling the colour rising to her cheeks. “I am sorry, I just don’t like… I find myself reluctant to admit when I’m no good at things.” 

“Ah, but you see,” G’raha says, straightening with a smile that is far too kind for her lie, “you  _ did  _ hunt, after a fashion, did you not? With words and wiles, instead of your wits?” 

The sound of her laughter fills the generous guest room, and a moment later his joins it, beautiful tenor mixing with the husky alto of her amusement. It’s set off again when the Warrior explains the promises she’d had to make to acquire the food, and the precarious race of the cart through the majestic Syrcus Trench. 

“You are too generous by half, G’raha,” Ariadne says eventually, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “And here I was ready to accept my penalty.” 

Only the most oblivious person in all the Shards could miss the increase in tension in the room, and Ariadne had made a living from her wits before she was ever a warrior. The look that G’raha shoots her over his shoulder is nothing short of  _ devious _ , confirmed when his russet ears bounce in joy before he grins widely. His mischief materialises when he spins around and pins her with his Allagan gaze, hands coming to rest on his hips. 

“Unfortunately, my dear friend,” he begins, relishing the way her ears sink, “I am yet thinking of it.” 

It was pre-emptive, then, to waste her one shot on Tataru.  _ Do not bargain with the beast _ , Ariadne thinks ruefully, left with nothing to do but help the Exarch as he moves to prepare the food for later. 

That is one conviction she hadn’t thought she’d have to reconsider when it came to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know your thoughts? I am thoroughly enjoying exploring my own WoL. How self-indulgent! ✨
> 
> (maybe by day 30 they'll kiss)


	3. Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy another long one, I'm impressed with myself! This chapter follows on directly from day two's prompt, Bargain. And oh my goodness, is that some sexual tension we spy there? 💖

As soon as they arrive at the feast Ariadne disappears. And if he wasn’t familiar with the tendency G’raha might think she was looking to avoid him - or his penalty - but in reality, he knows she simply loves to celebrate the aftermath. The  _ living _ , the what-comes-next after battles hard fought. Considering that this time it had been her very soul, let alone the entirety of their world at stake, he thinks she has earned the right to quaff dwarven ale with the awestruck soldiers of the Crystarium. 

That being said, she’s  _ very  _ good at vanishing, especially when Lyna corners him to see if he can convince the Warrior of Darkness to make a speech. He exchanges a rueful glance with Alphinaud, who has travelled along with the rest of the Scions to celebrate the soldiers’ bravery, and shrugs noncommittally. 

“I’ll try to see if I can find her,” G’raha offers. When his ward looks relieved, he feels a touch of guilt because he knows immediately that even if he  _ does  _ come upon Ariadne, he will not be able to convince her to stand on the podium and soliloquy. 

“May the Twelve guide you,” Alphinaud offers with a snicker. The Exarch has nothing to retort with but a sigh, close to invoking the luck the young elezen offers.

The Leveilleur knows as well as he that the larger the company, the fewer words the Warrior utters. In front of the entire squadron, it’s unlikely she’d manage anything more than a firm nod and a wave of her hand. Accepting the adulation, but not inciting it; G’raha had read paragraphs devoted to her reticence in all the history books that had been at his disposal, all of them speculating on her choice to speak rarely as anything from a stoic mindset to heroic outlook. 

In reality, the Exarch knows that Ariadne can be almost  _ chatty _ when in familiar company. It’s a confidence that warms his heart, that she’ll talk often, but only if she  _ knows  _ you, and he’s grateful to be considered amongst those that she does. 

Making fruitless circuits round the Wandering Stairs, festooned with groaning tables and spirited bunting for the evening, G’raha nods and smiles to everyone who sends well-wishes his way. Nobody stops him: one of the consequences of leadership, he has found, has been the fact that people daren’t accost him for long in case he is on matters of grave import.

_ I suppose this is _ , he thinks fondly, catching sight of a deep blue tail that waves with unmistakable mischief. Rounding the corner, he comes across Ariadne pressed close to one of the pillars that hold up the Stairs’ raised floor, ears perked forwards and her back to him as she listens. In the half-dark under the platform she’s obscured, twilight skin blending in with her dark clothes to render her hard to see. 

He takes a step forward, watching as one ear swivels back to listen to his approach, followed by her curious features as she turns away from whatever she’s observing. At the sight of him she perks up so transparently G’raha almost blushes, her hand reaching out to snag the fabric of his robes, bringing him into confidence. 

“Quiet,” she cautions, finger to her lips. “They’re just getting to the good part.”

Intrigued, he stands behind her in the shadows as she turns back to observe, catching sight of a group of soldiers conversing animatedly above the carousing racket. 

“Wicked White, that’s a hard ‘un,” says a young mystel archer, tapping his chin in thought. “I’ll not be the first to answer it, that’s for sure.”

He turns to a hume G’raha vaguely recognises as one of his lower ranked officers, the man frowning in deep thought as he considers the question that the Exarch had missed. There’s a moment of contemplation punctuated only by shouts for more ale, and G’raha feels the excitement emanating from his friend as she leans forward to listen. From this distance - not quite touching, the only space between them his sense of propriety - he can feel the warmth of her, the way she breathes in in glee. She’s touched with the heightened colour of alcohol, a flush to her cheeks that assures him she’ll most  _ definitely  _ not be delivering a speech tonight. 

“Choose between the Warrior of Darkness and her pretty sorceress friend, eh?” the hume muses, and G’raha’s ears stand up in shock. “A hard one to be sure, but I’ve got to say the Lady Y’shtola, if I may.”

“Aye,” another man agrees, and the Exarch  _ feels  _ the way Ariadne exhales, deep and disappointed. “The Warrior’s a tough one, but so  _ small _ , and if I had to choose I like my bedmates to be more…”

He trails off, outlining curves with his hands. The soldiers roar riotously, and even the young mystel nods along in agreement. At that, Ariadne turns full around, leaning against the pillar and folding her arms in annoyance. 

“By Menphina, that’s another bet lost,” she mutters, aiming for brevity. In the dark, however, G’raha can see what looks like a glimmer of true hurt in her eyes. “Between this and my little charade earlier, I know not to gamble further this night!”

She sighs, ears downcast, and turns to him with an enquiring smile that cannot quite hide her disappointment. 

“So. Come to tell me my punishment, my friend?”

G’raha looks down into her eyes, at the way her hands grip her arms just a touch. This was where a younger, bolder man would assure her that short though her stature may be, she was every ilm a woman true. In the days of NOAH G’raha would have, he thinks, painted for her a picture of her charms, many as they were. Talked of the way her light step turned heads wherever she went, or how the husky cadence of her voice could worm its way into even the most taciturn person’s dreams. How  _ he  _ had oft caught himself watching- he swallows, unwilling to see the thought through.

He could say it. But the years have made a shy man of him, and so he simply shakes his head, pretending not to see the way she turns her gaze back towards the still-laughing soldiers. 

“Nay,” he begins, voice low, “only to tell you to make yourself scarce, otherwise you may be at the mercy of making a speech.” 

Ariadne’s gaze snaps back to him, mouth opening in horror. He sees the sharpness of her fangs as they gleam in the dark and a stray thought - how they would feel against his lips - makes him look away, coughing into his fist. 

“You’re a true friend for warning me,” she says, emphatic. “And there’s naught to be had here but  _ poor  _ observations.”

His lips curve at the way her ears twitch with her words, alcohol rendering her oft-enigmatic expressions clear. 

“If you’ve had your fill of playing the benevolent leader, why don’t you disappear along with me?” 

G’raha contrives to look piqued. “It’s not a  _ play _ ,” he manages, though the humour is clear in his red eyes. When the Warrior lifts herself from the pillar and pats his arm consolingly, unwinding her small but sturdy frame from its self-conscious curl, he thinks the tease worth it.

“I know,” Ariadne replies, and his humour is wiped clean with shock at her simple confidence. “But still, you must tire of it…”

Sometimes, more than she could guess. 

“...so let’s vanish to somewhere nobody will wring a speech from us. No?”

He nods, charmed. And it’s with a whispered word that he makes both of them invisible, her hand finding his sleeve as they wind their precarious way through the joyful crowds. The Exarch has no idea where they’re going nor what they will do there, but he’s with the person he admires most across the Shards, and that’s enough for now. 

Ariadne may have lost her bet and he his courage, but suddenly, as G’raha turns back to see her grin at him with unrestrained mischief, he doesn’t feel as though the night is lost much any more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for everyone's lovely comments about Ariadne. I'm really enjoying writing for her 😻


	4. Shifting Blame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief interlude! This is set during the Shadowbringers MSQ, around the time when everyone is building the Talos. How amazing a villain is Emet-Selch? 🙏 I love a good Shakespearean character. And I don't ship Ariadne with him, but I imagine they'd have some good old-fashioned disgust for one another 😅💦
> 
> Today's prompt was on shifting blame, so I went for some... light angst 😨

She’s tempted to bear fangs at him, but it’s likely Emet-Selch would simply find it amusing. And her usual threatening aura, cultivated in a stern glare and a very palpable stirring of the dreadwyrm’s miasma, does nothing but tilt his smirk infuriatingly upwards. 

It has been a long time since Ariadne felt she is aught but the strongest soul in the vicinity. It’s intimidating, setting the fur of her long tail on edge, and it is made only worse by the knowledge that the Ascian is  _ supremely  _ aware of it. 

“You don’t say much, do you, Warrior?” he observes, sitting primly on the bench. The quiet rivers of Kholusia burble around them, gentle brooks leading downwards to the omnipresent sea. The presence of the shifting waters calms her - as it has since she was sung to sleep on it as a kit - and she turns to regard Emet-Selch with a stare that matches his for confidence.

“Not to strangers,” she rebutts, and for some reason it gets to him. She’s observant; his instant of surprise is obvious in the tightening of gloved hands against the rough Kholusian wood, the way his yellow eyes narrow on her almost suspiciously for an instant. 

Then he is back to normal. 

“Strangers, are we?” he ponders, hand raised to wave dismissively. “I should think we are at least half-way to acquaintances, by this point.” 

There’s an odd cadence to his words. Almost as though he has said them to her before, but that isn’t possible, because all the words they’ve exchanged thus far have been a wary dance of sorts. A probe for information that is more often than not rebuffed with a sly comment and the Ascian’s disappearance. For him to throw her off-kilter like this prickles like a warning down her spine. 

“Emet-Selch,” Ariadne says, and blinks in surprise when she thinks it might be first time she’s said his name, “we  _ are  _ strangers yet.” 

She doesn’t expect his laughter. Glancing round furtively, lest the parties working on the Talos catch wind of his gleeful ruckus, the miqo’te tries to shush him with folded arms and a grim expression. 

“The very same words,” he says eventually, mysteriously, head thrown back in amusement that  _ looks  _ to be genuine. “I must enquire: have you said them to your precious Exarch?” 

Her answering silence damns her; words to that effect had slipped from her mouth almost as soon as she met him, driven to them in grief that her friend G’raha had not woken up within the walls of the Tower. The man roused her suspicions, but he seems a poor liar… and  _ yet _ -

“Why do you ask?” she queries, refusing to be distracted. 

“No reason,” Emet-Selch replies dismissively, and it’s so blatantly a lie that Ariadne can do nothing but open her mouth in useless frustration. Through the short time she’s known him the Emperor will not speak on anything he doesn’t want to, and she is too wound up to waste words on the attempt. 

“You infuriate me,” she says instead, rare annoyance in her tone. Seated, he is almost as tall as she is standing, and at this moment that fact serves to fan the flames of her poor temper. The Warrior doesn’t even remember why he’d come to bother her in the first place, only that he  _ is _ . 

“You are shifting blame, my dear.” Emet-Selch’s voice is curiously clear, as though he is trying to keep any hint of emotion from it. “Blame not me, but your  _ shockingly  _ bad memory.” 

Trying and failing to keep her ears from twitching in confusion, Ariadne instead heaves a beleaguered sigh. The task ahead of her is daunting, to slay the last Lightwarden and bring night back to the First, to see a giant Talos carrying her up to the clouds, the hope of the people once again. If this Ascian will not offer her any more of his jealously-guarded wisdom, then she has little time for his wiles. 

He reads the thought in the way her eyes slide past him, and Ariadne jumps as her companion snaps his fingers, commanding her attention. 

“Tell me, have you seen the Crystal Exarch lately?” he asks, far too innocent for it to be anything but false. “If not, I think you should.”

There’s something in the way he says it that has her fists clenching, teeth bared in a snarl that is useless yet satisfying, all the same. The Keeper doesn’t ask why: Emet-Selch will not tell her. But she nods begrudgingly to him all the same, striding off into the crowds with a frisson of worry for the Crystarium’s leader now stirring in her mind. 

It’s not until later, until the empty halls of Amaurot, that she meets Hythlodaeus and Emet-Selch’s words make more sense. The gentle shade speaks, and in it she hears the Crystal Exarch’s own polite speech in the way he names himself an old friend. 

A stranger and yet a dear friend all the same; it’s with a bitter laugh that Ariadne sees, finally, a measure of the truth. But once again, as with all her found friends, it is already too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you thought! This is the first time I've attempted to write Emet-Selch.


	5. Vault

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness I'm doing this hard mode with a very long chapter almost at the edge of the deadline. I hope you enjoy! This carries on from prompts #2 and #3, and features a lot of banter between Ariadne and G'raha. I can't stop myself 😅

He sees how much Ariadne has changed when she  _ vaults _ \- not just jumps, truly breaks free from the earth for a few scant moments - clean over the fence to reach the little mystel child. It’s absurd that it becomes clear to him now, when he has witnessed how she fights ancients with a blade and bow firmly in her grip, but as the Warrior sprints out of the agitated bull’s way from a standing start G’raha finds himself frozen to the spot in surprise. 

It’s even more impressive, he thinks as he finally stirs into action, that Ariadne is quite likely  _ drunk _ . 

“G’raha!” she barks his name like an order and he responds to it, moving to the edge of the fence with his arms raised to catch the young kit as she spins back round to the snorting animal. He blinks when the child’s weight lands awkwardly on his crystalline frame, and that’s all it takes. The bull lies still on the grass, unconscious from a blow the Warrior of Darkness had had too much ale to soften.

“I knocked it out,” she remarks fruitlessly. He nods, preoccupied with soothing the wailing mystel in his arms, and she shakes herself to come back to her senses, leaping effortlessly back over the stout wood fence to take her damsel in distress from his awkward grasp. 

“Well now, little one,” Ariadne murmurs, and it is in a tone he’s never before heard her use. Gentle, soothing, the somnolent speech of a parent to a fussing child and G’raha  _ wonders.  _ Remembers that Keepers are fiercely protective of their young, caring for them oft before their own lives. Watches her as she seems utterly at ease with the crying child, holding her comfortably to her chest. “Aren’t you up late?”

The girl squirms, caught, and twists herself around until she’s anchored to Ariadne’s hip. They’d managed to sneak away from the crowds enough that G’raha had felt it safe to remove the spell of invisibility, walking in companionable silence alongside the farms that border the Rookery. It’s late enough that the place is quiet save for the snorting and shifting of sleeping animals - and the miserable sniffling of a child who has been frightened half out of her wits. 

He bends forwards to let the girl see his face - the children of the Crystarium seem utterly enchanted by his red eyes, and he means to make her feel at ease - but she howls in despair and buries herself into the Warrior of Darkness’ shoulder, heedless of the young woman’s daunting reputation. 

“Ah,” Ariadne says knowingly, patting the girl’s silvery curls, “she thinks she’s like to get in trouble.” 

“Mm,” G’raha says, leaning back and putting his hands on his hips. “Now there’s a shame, for I thought to share my very last sugar twist with a certain young farmhand.” 

_ That _ makes her turn to peep at him cautiously, and it’s under his friend’s gaze that G’raha gives the girl a confection conjured from the folds of his robes. He would be embarrassed at the show of sweet-tooth, but there is a softness to Ariadne’s green eyes that he decides he likes very much indeed. 

“M’sorry, my lord Exarch,” the kit manages, speaking around the prize in her teeth. He winks at her and she beams delightedly. 

“As long as you promise not to go into that field again, there’ll be another for you next time you come to the library.” 

He pats her on the head and the girl leans into it, ears that she’s still growing into wriggling in unabashed joy at the attention. “I shan’t!” she pronounces, nodding seriously. 

Ariadne shucks her burden to the other hip, tossing the girl lightly and making her squeal with glee. She’s very young to be out so late, but mystel are a precocious bunch and thus G’raha is not too worried, so long as she stays where she’s meant to. 

“Do you need help to get back home?” his companion asks, nosing dotingly into the girl’s hair. It’s a touch so freely given that G’raha feels a moment of unjust jealousy; he knows the culture of Ariadne’s youth well enough to know that Keepers of the Moon are a physically affectionate bunch. She simply doesn’t display it much, understanding that many of the peoples of Eorzea and beyond would shrink back from such blatant closeness. 

Still; the Exarch thinks he would not mind if she did. 

“Nah,” the girl answers staunchly, bringing him out of his musing. With a shake of her head and wet kiss to the miqo’te’s cheek, their young interloper wriggles free before dropping to the ground, bowing and waving as she darts away. G’raha smiles as he watches her go; it’s clear she is still somewhat worried he will give her a lecture on her bad behaviour. 

“A swift getaway,” Ariadne comments in amusement, turning to him and mimicking the way the kit’s little legs pump as she trots out of sight. “You read to children in the Cabinet?” 

He feels himself colour slightly, rubbing his crystal hand on his neck to cool the heated flesh down. “Ah… yes, sometimes,” he admits. “It’s good to know what the future looks like.” 

There’s a snort as Ariadne grins to herself, fangs showing for an instant before she directs her gaze back to him. “So you’re good with children,” she observes, walking in front for a few paces, hands behind her head. “ _ Grandfather _ .”

G’raha manages to look aghast before he narrows his eyes at her, rejoining her tease with his own. “No more than you are at gathering followers,” he says with a grin of his own, watching how she flinches in mock embarrassment. “I daresay you’ve another fan for life.” 

“Oh, do not…” 

They laugh together as they walk and it’s nice, though he has questions burning in the back of his mind that he knows he’ll never ask.  _ Who taught you to vault as though you were a fish flying free from the river? How to hold a child like you loved her best in the world?  _ There is so much that the history books and his own past with Ariadne do not tell him; she is contradiction and disruption made flesh. 

So absorbed is G’raha in this line of thinking that it is several steps before he realises she’s stopped in her tracks, leaning on the edge of the fence to look back towards the pastures where sleeping amaro lie. 

“Tis been a while since I’ve held a child,” she muses, quiet, and there’s nothing of the warmth of alcohol in her low tone. 

He doesn’t know what to say; her words hold all the wealth of intimacy and it is so rare from her that he dare not disturb the spell. 

“You might think you had many cousins,” she continues, recalling a passing comment he’d made many moons ago about the tangle of youths in his childhood, “but you’ve not seen a large Keeper tribe. Never had anything done but with a babe of my cousins’ or my aunts’ in my arms.”

The night carries the faint sounds of revelry to them as they stand and Ariadne’s ears twitch to it, their tufted blue fur quivering as she picks up the raucous fun of the soldiers. It seems to cheer her; G’raha watches as a slow smirk spreads its way across her solemn face, lighting her up and making her eyes glow with mirth. In introspection she has a quiet beauty but it is in joy that the Warrior’s loveliness shines through, and he finds himself unable to breathe for a moment before she speaks on. 

“Still, it meant I hauled books with the best of them once I got to the Guild in Limsa,” she crows, creasing her eyes in fond remembrance of her tenure with the city’s Arcanists. “And then, as you just so magnificently witnessed, I traded those too for spears and swords alike.”

The Exarch nods, holding a hand up to add his own memory. “A far cry from the Summoner in Mor Dhona, who’d wheeze after one lap around the lake.” 

At that, Ariadne throws back her head and laughs up at the night sky, and though it is subdued it is real, and so he smiles too, warmth in his Allagan eyes as she protests the physical shortcomings of her early days. 

“Pray tell,” he asks once they take a breath, moving to walk through the archway leading to the Hortorium. “What made you take up the lance?” 

It’s a safe question, he can tell, because she’s already summoned the long weapon from the aether, twirling the deadly thing with expert ease. And G’raha doesn’t know where they’re going, but he doesn’t care, and he thinks that Ariadne doesn’t either when she does a small backflip with almost absentminded perfection. Not one of her impressive jumps, but a thing to be admired all the same. 

“That’s a long story, G’raha,” she begins. “Might even be as long as the rest of the night.” 

The unspoken invitation in her words makes him feel… makes him feel young again. And so he takes it, shrugging his shoulders in mock helplessness and catching the tip of her lance in his crystal hand as she waves it. The alcohol that threads coyly through his system bids him lean forward, tipping the lance up until there’s barely a few ilms between them. 

“Best get started,” he offers cheekily, enjoying the way that Ariadne’s dusky skin becomes tinged with what he knows is a blush.

She does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy my attempt to explain multi-classing 
> 
> Let me know what you think of Ariadne! 😍


	6. First Steps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring Alphinaud being a Good Friend ™ because poor Ariadne has some serious anxiety. Follows on directly from yesterday's prompt 💕

Her first steps are often the same, she explains. The soldiers gathered nod as though they know precisely what she’s talking about and Ariadne thinks  _ these are more martial men than I. I can’t- there’s nothing for me to teach them.  _ Looking around, grizzled veterans and sturdy adventurers alike wait with bated breath to hear what she will say.  _ So why am I standing here, pretending I have wisdom to share?  _

It’s enough to make her throat close up and from his place at the back of the room Ariadne sees Alphinaud unfold his arms, move away from the wall and start to hurry towards her. He gives the speeches, she brings the emphasis; that’s the way they’ve always worked, and it would be good to fall back on that now. But. 

_ But _ . There is the small matter of disappointing the Exarch, who stands right there alongside his men, waiting to hear from her own mouth what brings her will to fight to life. He looks tired from their talk last night, but no more than she feels, a sense of satisfied exhaustion that nevertheless is cut through with rising panic at the need to speak. There’s a pause while the men wait for more words and Ariadne watches Alphinaud make his way through the crowd with increasing speed, finally resorting to pushing people out the way to reach her. 

“Forgive me, soldiers,” he says, practised diplomat’s tongue gilded in a way hers could never be. “But I needs must steal the Warrior on an errand of some import.” 

_ Bless him, _ Ariadne thinks, catching the young scion’s eye as he holds out a hand. She grasps it eagerly, letting him pull her slight weight down from the raised platform of the barracks’ mess hall to drag her outside. Nodding in apology, the miqo’te watches as G’raha exchanges an unreadable look with Alphinaud, moving to take her place. 

She’s grateful to him; she suspects that the Exarch knows  _ something  _ of her hesitance around crowds, but it’s nothing like Alphinaud’s understanding, a knowledge born through shared experience and their mutual fear of mob mentality. 

“Are you alright?” Alphinaud asks as they move through the corridors of the soldier’s offices, keeping an eye out for folks likely to accost them as they leave. Lyna will no doubt be disappointed at her for abandoning the podium, but at this moment Ariadne doesn’t care, taking her first steps back out in the fresh air and gasping as though she’d held her breath. 

“No,” she replies simply, “but I will be. Thanks, Alphinaud.” 

He nods, giving her hand a quick squeeze before letting go. There is nothing more precious than a friend who understands without the need to pry: Alphinaud has never asked why she hates speaking in front of crowds, only accepted it, oft bending the rules of politeness to ensure she does not have to. It is something Ariadne will be grateful for until the end of it all, his steadfast companionship given without strings attached. 

“I’m going to make myself scarce for a few bells,” she says, and Alphinaud cocks his head to give her an appraising look. “I don’t suppose you really do have some manner of urgent task for me, do you?” 

The young elezen laughs, hands on his hips in the way of his sister. 

“Always,” he assures the Warrior. “For who am I but your harshest taskmaster?”

With Tataru safely ensconced on the Source, Ariadne considers that he might just be telling the truth. When he explains an errand that sounds suspiciously like a carefully contrived plan to make her relax, the miqo’te watches her young friend with an expression kept utterly neutral, but a heart fit to bursting with fondness. 

“With friends like you…” she says in jest, trailing off as Alphinaud shrugs. 

“...who needs foes?” he finishes, and they grin at one another in shared remembrance, nights around a campfire firmly in each of their minds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for everyone's lovely comments. I'm very glad you're enjoying this self-indulgent work!


	7. Forgiveness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one because it's a busy Saturday! 💕 this takes place before the events that revealed G'raha's identity to Ariadne... probably sometime early in the MSQ, when he's still a little mysterious and untrustworthy. 
> 
> It's my personal headcanon that Summoners are pretty paranoid / fucked up / too into the idea of summoning Bahamut and that this would be a definite source of worry for them as their aether became corrupted.

“Was I forgiven?” she asks him one day, and the Exarch simply looks at her, because he can’t quite think what Ariadne would need forgiveness for. 

When he doesn’t answer, she gives him a small  _ tch  _ of frustration so gentle that he risks it, asks the question, begs silent forgiveness from  _ her _ for his ongoing deception. 

“Why would you need to be?” 

It’s not quite right; because phrasing it that way does not acknowledge the fact that yes, in her life she has done some things that were far along the grey slide of morality. Bad things, even, depending on whom he had spoken to. But the Exarch is still getting over a century of hero-worship and reintroducing himself to the Warrior in the flesh. Small steps, hesitantly taken.

“I suppose...” she says, “I don’t, not really. Not yet. But still, it would be nice to know. If people were able to overlook…”

There is a pause while she makes a little flapping motion in the air. It’s an absurd way, he thinks, to make reference to the Dreadwyrm. And yet it suits their unshakeable, unmistakable bond. 

So he nods. “Yes, you were forgiven. Easily. For many things, for means to an end that were to the benefit of all. I cannot think of any detractors worth mentioning.” 

It’s hard, to recall the lonely, frantic years spent after waking up, lost in a world without all the people he knew and loved. Nothing but his own shock and horror for company, before the descendants of the Ironworks came to him to plead for a world almost as lost as he. Ariadne senses this, places a cool hand on his crystal wrist and squeezes it in yet another gesture of apology. In this form she does not know him, nor does she fully trust him yet, and despite that she offers him this: the touch of a friend, freely given. 

The Exarch nearly weeps. But Ariadne has heard his tears, once, and he thinks her a woman not likely to forget sorrow. So he holds it in, offers her a smile tinged with melancholy, and silently vows that he will never ask her to do anything that she’ll feel the need for exoneration.

“Will you let me read the books to check?” she asks, voice lifting in a hope that drags his spirits up with it. 

“T’would not be a good idea,” he warns her, and he can see the way her face scrunches up in disappointed understanding. “Not least of all in case, my Warrior, you develop what they call here a terribly  _ big head _ .” 

It is, perhaps, too close to the way he’d tease her when he was naught more than G’raha. But she smiles at it, just like she’d humoured him on the shores of Silvertear, and the Exarch begs his own forgiveness from his plans for the way he does not regret his words, his placing in jeopardy all he has built.

For when she shucks a shoulder into his, wariness forgotten in this moment of rare levity, G’raha Tia finds that he does not regret them at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BAHAMUT I LOVE YOU I'LL ACTUALLY WRITE YOU INTO A PROMPT ONE DAY I PROMISE *ahem*
> 
> 😅💦


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